


Dinner Dilemma

by christinefromsherwood



Series: December 2020 Gifts [3]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, M/M, Q hates turkey, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:33:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28283250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/christinefromsherwood/pseuds/christinefromsherwood
Summary: As Q watched James finish basting the turkey and slide it into the oven with a smile that bordered on pleased smugness, he was overwhelmed with a single thought: he really wanted sushi. In fact, he was almost certain he had never wanted anything more.The moment Q realised this, his thoughts screeched to a halt, becausereally…? But really. He had never wanted anything more. Or maybe it would be better to say that he had never wanted anything less thanthat turkey.
Relationships: James Bond/Q
Series: December 2020 Gifts [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2071785
Comments: 12
Kudos: 41





	Dinner Dilemma

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MrKsan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrKsan/gifts).



> KSANOLAS! Look what the magical entity left under the tree for you! 🤗🤗🤗 I hope you like it.
> 
> (Thank you, souffle, for the prompt and the beta :) )

As Q watched James finish basting the turkey and slide it into the oven with a smile that bordered on pleased smugness, he was overwhelmed with a single thought: he _really_ wanted sushi. In fact, he was almost certain he had never wanted anything more. 

The moment Q realised this, his thoughts screeched to a halt, because really…? But **really**. He had never wanted anything more. Or maybe it would be better to say that he had never wanted anything less than _that turkey_. 

However, there was absolutely no way he could say it without looking like the world’s biggest twatbasket. Especially since James was so excited about it: his Experiment Turkey as he had taken to affectionately calling it while he was breaking its backbone and flattening it on their largest baking pan.

They were having turkey for dinner. Today. And the day after that. And the day after _that_. And the-

Q tried to console himself with the thought that James’s cooking was always delicious. And the article James had enthusiastically waved in his face that morning did say that spatchcocking a turkey was “the only way to avoid dryness and to ensure perfect texture of both the white _and_ the dark meat”. Still, Q couldn’t find it in himself to feel much optimism. Because this was _turkey_. 

Q wondered who it was in history who had first decided to make it a tradition to have turkey at Christmas; what absolute numbnut sat down and said: “You know how we all like chicken, yeah? Well, how about we have meat that is _kind of_ like that only infinitely dryer and less flavourful instead?” and everyone presumably cheered and made him king because what an ingenious idea. 

As far as Q was concerned, the only advantage turkey had over chicken was its size. And that was decidedly _not_ an advantage when it meant you and your partner were faced with eating turkey and _only_ turkey for the entire month of September _._

Though Q supposed he could try to speed things up a bit by giving some to Fox when he was being exceptionally good and didn’t try to eat Q’s hand when he was writing code. 

Fox would probably enjoy that. He’d been sitting on a high chair at the breakfast bar, watching the magic show that was James’s dinner preparations as though trying to hypnotise a drumstick into detaching itself from the bird and flying into his greedy maw. 

“Fox Mulder!” James barked as one paw reached out to knock a greasy spoon to the floor. “Off.” 

Fox jumped off.

Q watched as he padded into the living room at a leisurely pace. No part of him from his tail curled high at the tip to the way he twitched his whiskers let on that he was coming there to have a sulk. Q rather hoped that no part of _him_ sitting on the couch, occasionally typing a line or two, but actually mostly sneaking glances at James in the kitchen, let on that _he_ was having a sulk.

Because James was excited about a pre-Christmas trial run on this spatchcock turkey and Q was absolutely not allowed to be a twat about it. No matter how much he wanted to have sushi and how much he didn’t want to think about Christmas.

Not thinking about Christmas wouldn’t stop it coming. Q was pretty sure there was a children’s poem about something like that. 

“I’m making tea, want some?” James called from the kitchen. 

“Yes, please,” said Q and got up to bring his empty mug because he wanted to stretch his legs and he was also a reasonable human being who was not still in a snit over dinner.

“Biscuits?” James asked with a knowing look in his eyes and Q couldn’t help but smile at him. The hot air from the oven made his cheeks all flushed and there was a this-new-thing-I’m-trying-is-going-so-well spark in his eyes; he looked lovely. 

Something about that moment, about the way James wiped his hands on his apron as he threw the oven another smug grin, made Q realise that he could absolutely do this. 

“Hmmm, do we have any bourbons?” he asked instead of saying something really stupid. 

James scrunched up his eyebrows as he thought for a moment before bending down to rummage through their cupboard.

The something stupid would probably look like: _James,_ _I will celebrate Christmas and eat turkey for weeks on end because, apparently, you’re the love of my life and there’s this look you get that makes something inside me all soft and gooey like a Bourbon Cream dunked in hot tea._

“Digestives, rich teas, digestives…”

After all, Christmas _as a concept_ was an excellent thing. It was only in practice that it became incredibly dull and loud and a performative hassle of a pain in the neck that Q had managed to successfully avoid for the majority of his life. 

In any case, it was too late now for him to pipe up with “Let’s not _do_ Christmas this year? Or any year? Please?” But that honestly wasn’t Q’s fault!

Last December, James was off in Georgia for the month and Q had completely forgotten about the whole thing until James had sent him a “Merry Christmas, darling. See you soon.” on the 25th. And then there were more missions and somehow they had never got around to having that conversation. Which had, once again, a perfectly reasonable explanation: It wasn’t Q’s favourite conversation to have. 

He had never quite managed to find a way to explain that he didn’t celebrate Christmas, and no, it wasn’t because of a different religion, he simply preferred not to, without sounding like the worst pretentious knob in every holiday movie. He’d been reliably informed of that.

So, Christmas it was.

And it might even be nice, if James enjoyed himself and there were bourbons and tea on the horizon. Q firmly believed that you could manage anything when you had a nice cup of tea and a biscuit to look forward to. 

The timer on the oven went off; James closed the cupboard door. 

“I thought there was a packet behind the hobnobs, but I can’t find it now.” He shrugged his shoulders before moving to the oven. 

Q wouldn’t exactly say he was “reeling _”_ but it was true that the sudden wave of disappointment he felt at the lack of his favourite biscuits in the near future seemed unreasonable given the circumstances.

“We must have opened it last week, then,” he said and went to grab the boiling kettle, while James hummed and prodded the turkey with a thermometer. 

Watching hot water hit his tea bag and turn deep, violent purple, Q digged deep and summoned all his enthusiasm. He was not going to ruin this for James. “But dinner will be soon, right? Wouldn’t do to spoil our appetite.”

“It _is_ nearly done! Now, I leave it to rest for twenty minutes and heat up the roasties from lunch and we can eat!” James was grinning in excitement. It was almost infectious. 

“You know,” he continued, “I wonder if Experiment Turkey lives up to the article. I’ve never really enjoyed the meat myself.” 

It was only barely that Q managed to avoid scalding his hand. _What._

“What?”

“Well, you know, when it comes to _flavour,_ nothing can really beat a nice roasted duck.” He shrugged and his smile turned sheepish. Q was suddenly filled with a terrible, wonderful premonition. His face must have done something strange because James threw him one of his apologetic grins before continuing:

“Or a chicken. You know I have a trick for getting the skin really cris- Off!” 

Q hadn’t even noticed Fox slink back into the kitchen, until James was suddenly grabbing him off the counter. The little sneak began to purr and quickly went to rub his head against James’s jaw as though that and not thieving had been his intention all along. 

Q watched James scratch Fox’s head and for the first time wondered if maybe his cat came by these sneaky ways honestly. After all, _he_ was standing there, sipping at his hot tea, considering, hoping, waiting, waiting, _waiting_ for an opportune moment, but unlike him Fox at least was ready to take a leap, face the consequences and seize the turkey...

“I love your crispy-skin chicken,” Q said, painfully aware that it wasn’t much, but it was an opening and if he was right... “I wonder who came up with having a turkey at Christmas anyway.” 

James huffed out a laugh. “Don’t ask me. I’m not an expert on Christmas.”

Speaking of openings… “Oh, me neither, I haven’t celebrated it in thirty years.” 

Fox’s purring seemed incredibly loud in the sudden silence of the kitchen. 

Now, Q had often tried to imagine what James’s reaction might be if he ever managed to get around to telling him about his deal with Christmas, but even his most optimistic conjectures failed to portray the tentative hope on James’s face.

“You mean, you don’t- we don’t have to-”

Q nodded madly. “We don’t have to do it!” 

“We could have a duck!” 

Oh, but that smile on his face! Q laughed. 

“Or order sushi! We could do anything!”

The oven timer went off again, and Q went to fetch the roasted potatoes with a new spring in his step. They could do anything.

When he turned around, James was making a thoughtful face at the turkey. “You know, a week ago I found this old French recipe for a wild hare stew. At least 12 hours of cooking, all low and slow. So if we’re not doing Christmas…”

Q suppressed the automatic wave of NO that rose up in him at the words _wild hare_. After all, it _probably_ wouldn’t be stringy and tough after 12 hours? Right?

“Sure,” he said instead and effectively hip-checked Fox, who looked like he was considering making an attempt to use the open oven door as a springboard to the nice smelling meat. “I’ve never had game that wasn’t… _gamey_ , but why not.” 

“True.” James nodded. “We could just order sushi.”

They could do _anything_. Q grinned wildly. Sure, there was turkey for dinner and breakfast and lunch, but without Christmas looming on the horizon, that’s all it was. 

And in any case, there was tea and biscuits to look forward to and with them Q was ready to face anything.


End file.
